It's grey outside -- feels like inside my head, all close, wet, and noisy. Like a headache, the one that feels like nails in my temples.
Rain patters down everywhere, feather-light little drops, collecting in my hair, on my skin and clothes. It'll rain harder tonight.
It's too hard to focus -- my eyes are burning, white sclera shot through with red, and my head aches, like someone whisked my brains into fluff with a fork. They're about the consistency of tofu, brains. Scrambled tofu brains -- delicious.
She put me on the meds -- to get rid of the headaches, clear the fuzz inside my head. But the only thing they did was fill my head with fluffy cotton, deaden sensation, dampen everything to murmurs. I quit taking them. She doesn't know.
I can't remember why I came out here -- was I going home? Sounds right, but this is the wrong part of the city.
I step inside -- it's dark, dirty, with the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The sign is too blurry, the letters unreadable, but I can smell the gathered people, and I can hear a train rushing down the tracks: subway.
We don't have a subway, do we?
And then my head implodes, suddenly, quietly.